Yellow Bird
by deludedfreak
Summary: AU Oneshot IK I wondered if he had noticed, and if he was there, watching as my apartment burned down, worrying that maybe I was inside. He was with her, while I watched the flowers we had planted go up in flames, along with any dreams of us.


**A/N:** The idea for this has been on my mind for a really long time, and now I'm so bored I'm starting to write it. Yay for boredom, letting us get things we normally wouldn't get done!

**Disclaimer:** I do NOT own Inuyasha or any of the characters in this little story. In fact, the plot is technically mine either. It's a retelling of the fairytale The Snow Queen or something like that. And the song lyrics at the end don't belong to me either! So don't sue!

**Yellow Bird**

I guess I was more relieved than anything, at the sight of her moving in on him. It made me feel better to realize that my worst fears had come to life and I would no longer worry that would happen.

I was selfish in my reasoning, I know, but now he could be happy with her. She was perfect, flawless, with skin as white as snow. She was a golden statue, and I was an abstract painting. Black-and-white. Just like the world he now lives in. She is the white, and everything is the black. Drawn to it, like a moth to a streetlamp, he will never be the same. He will never be mine.

I remember back to the time when he still performed at Reflections, the old nightclub Miroku and Sango ran. They were happy together, and we used to think we were going to be like that some day.

The first time I saw him play, the curtain rose and there he was, sitting under a light that illuminated every feeling I had ever felt about music. He played on that old acoustic guitar like his life depended on it, and when he was done, he smirked into the microphone and said that he owed his success to a fleeting bird he had met a long time ago. And our eyes met. It could have been an eternity we stared at each other. I didn't keep track, and I'm sure he didn't either.

I left the club, my frozen toes banging against the insides of my old Converse. Black high-tops. My mom bought them for me on my nineteenth birthday, before she died. They still fit my feet, and despite how torn up they were, I kept them, unable to throw away the last thing she ever gave me.

It was cold out, and my breath came out in wispy sighs that I could just barely see in the faint lamplight. I had only walked a block down the street when someone yelled out to me. Turning, I saw that it was him.

He caught up in no time, and I could only stare up at him, unsure and somewhat afraid of what to do next. He hugged me, and kept whispering that he had found me at last. I didn't know what to do; I didn't even know what he was talking about. But I started to cry, and I suddenly felt as if I was finally free.

We were around each other more after that, spending time together, sharing secrets, crying about our losses. The first time we kissed I felt like crying, unable to contain my feelings in anything but. He pulled away and wiped the tears off my cheeks. Don't cry, he told me, I'll protect you. That only made me cry harder.

It's hard to remember these things, now. I can see his big mansion at the top of the hill, where I know the two of them are, together. He is probably raising his champagne glass to her, telling her she is the only one. They will soon retire to his bed, where she now keeps him imprisoned, with her long icy kisses and flawless perfection. I never kept him imprisoned. I always gave him freedom, steering away from cages of pleasure and chains of commitment. And only when he left for good did I realize what he truly meant to me.

She doesn't understand it, the feeling, the longing to be with someone when you know you can't have them, the love that hurts the very core of your body, like when you are trying to balance on a yoga ball, your knees tucked under your body, and the crying feeling you get when you want to be able to stay upright and then just tumble off into a hole of sadness.

Only I can understand.

Because he told me he wanted to be with me forever, and even when we fought, he would always come back, never saying sorry, because I didn't like to be apologized to. But we both knew it was each other's fault, and never said anything about the feuds. It was a rule we kept, so that we might maintain our remaining sanity.

He loved me, I love him.

I think I might leave this city, leave this city for a quiet place in the country, like I used to live in my childhood. I could hide in the tall grasses and sleep with my face in a haystack, like I was a wild person, living alone and without any actual home, because my old one is burned down.

The last time we went to Reflections together, he held my hand in his as we entered, and I smiled at him, and he smiled at me, and our two hands entwined together like a couple turned into two trees, twisted around each other, like in the old Greek-or was it Roman- myth. He played a song about a girl who lost her boyfriend in a car accident and then almost killed herself because of it. Afterwards, we sat on a couch, on separate ends, with several other people squeezed in between us. I would lean backward and he would forward, just so we could see each others face, until I felt my cheeks flush with embarrassment, and I'd turn away.

Sometimes, after a good show, I'd take him back to my apartment, and I'd show him all of my paintings, and the flowerpots I had painted in hopes that one day I would plant flowers in them. He and I wrote promises on the pots in black marker, telling ourselves that we would last. One day, when I was sick, he came to visit me. I was asleep the whole day, but when I woke up, I noticed there was soil in the flowerpots and a note on the table.

It told me to water them each day and not forget.

So I did.

I never got to see the flowers bloom, because they burned along with my apartment, the night I set fire to it. My paintings, I kept them in my mind, and sold them for two bucks a piece to salesman. I saw the way his eyes lit up when he saw them, and I knew then that they were good. And when he offered such a small price for them, I could only accept, my heart broken into so many pieces I didn't care anymore. But it made me the slightest bit happier that if I had had any purpose in my life at all, it would be to paint and paint and paint.

It was the first happiness I'd felt in weeks.

She came two months ago, shimmering like the golden statue she was, and glimmering like the moon. Every icy touch she sent out like a shockwave stunned me, and I was unable to move as she drew him away from me, grasping his hand in hers, pulling him toward the door. I fled from Reflections that night, my tears staining my cheeks. I took a lot of showers, trying to wash away the memory of his touch, trying to forget. He belonged to her, and I knew it. I guess I knew it all along.

During the day, when I walked along the streets, people would whisper, whisper, about the girl who had lost to the new girl in town. I could feel the sorrow encasing me, the sympathy directed at me threatening to suffocate any feelings I had.

I stopped going to Reflections. I almost even stopped going home. I would wander around the big city, tracing my steps back to the time when he would take me back to the mansion on the big hill and hold me. Kissing the bridge of my nose, kissing my cheeks, kissing my forehead, we would lie together on the roof, staring at the smog-filled sky. A pumpkin moon lightened the mood, and the few stars out there highlighted our feelings.

My frozen toes would bang against the insides of my black Converse high-tops, and my breath would come out in frozen wisps.

Until it hurt too much, I grabbed my box of matches and set fire to the carpet. As I walked out the door, I knocked over an open bottle of beer. I needed to get far away from this life, I told myself. Sitting on a park bench, smoking a cigarette, I heard the sirens, saw the smoke. I wondered if he had noticed, and if he was there, watching as my apartment burned down, worrying that maybe I was inside. I knew he wasn't. He was with her, having the time of his life, while I watched the smoke from those flowerpots rise into the sky, and the ghosts of the seedlings cried out in vain.

A night later, I'm standing at the corner where he hugged me the first time, where he said he'd found me, where I began to cry, where my life started. Reflections is all lit up, and every few minutes the door opens to release half-drunken people, stumbling home, chuckling to themselves. Then the door opens to reveal him, followed by her. I watch, barely breathing, as he kisses her on the lips and smiles. Suddenly, his gaze is averted to me, and he stares, like I am a ghost come back to haunt him. Which I probably am. She follows his eyes, and looks to me. Glaring, she pulls him away, and I feel like screaming.

A few hours later, and I'm about to explode with memories. I run all the way up the hill to the mansion, until I get to the gates. I press the button a few times, but no one answers. Deciding that a little trespassing wouldn't hurt, I hop the wall with the help of a tree. Still feeling full of energy, I race to the door, and pick the lock the way he taught me how. Closing it behind me, I tiptoe to the stairs, and begin my ascent to the second floor, where I know his bedroom is. It's dark, all the lights having been turned off. I walk quietly to the end of the hallway, the last door. Standing before it, I rest my hand on the doorknob, and close my eyes and take a deep breath.

I flip the light switch, and I am suddenly blinded, squinting, trying to find what I am looking for. She is awake, wearing a silk robe that seems too small and too simple for her. He is asleep, his head resting in her lap.

I pay no attention to that. I only have eyes for the painting hanging above them, above his bed. It is the one I painted last, the one I showed him last, of a yellow bird flying through shades of gray and black and brown. I had told him it was a picture of freedom, being able to go where you pleased. And then I asked what he would do if he had wings. He told me he'd take me flying, and we'd go to the countryside, and live among the tall grasses. We'd bathe in the fresh sunlight and sleep with our faces in a haystack.

She is standing now, next to the bed, blocking my vision of the bird, of my bird, our bird.

What are you doing here, she says, He doesn't need you anymore.

I don't say anything. My words are lost.

Leave now.

I can't move at all.

Leave.

I want to cry.

She is silenced by a groan from him. He is waking up. I have nowhere to hide, and I am afraid of the man I love.

She sheds the robe, and she stands now, naked and glittering. My bird shouldn't have to see that, I think, It shouldn't be staring face to face with that perfection.

He sits up, blinking the sleep from his eyes. He sees me, and he is suddenly awake. Then he sees her. Before I know it, I'm standing at the foot of the bed, begging with my eyes that he remembers everything we had shared. But he isn't looking at me, he's looking at her. I turn away, ready to leave, but he says my name.

Kagome.

I freeze, and squeeze my eyes shut. I hear shuffling next to me, and now I can hear his breathing in front of me.

Kagome, don't leave.

And his mouth covers mine, and I'm brought back to a time long ago, when I was much younger. I had almost forgot.

_Two children, a boy with hair as white as snow and golden eyes, and a girl with black hair and blue eyes are lying together among a field of tall grasses and wildflowers. It's the country, and it doesn't take long for me to realize the children are me and him._

"_Inuyasha, what do you want to be when you are older?" the girl asks, twisting her fingers into her dress._

_The boy shrugs, and sighs loudly. "I dunno. Maybe I'll dig out that old guitar from the attic and learn to play it."_

"_Will you become really famous?"_

"_I don't know."_

"_Inuyasha, don't forget about me when you're all rich and famous, okay?" the girl's face is distressed, and she turns her head to look at him._

_He looks back, giving her his signature smirk. "Of course I won't. Every song I write will be about you, and the yellow birds you love."_

"_Thanks."_

I pull away from him, and there are tears in both of our eyes. I bury my face into his chest and whisper I love you into his shirt.

I don't know if he hears me, but he says it too.

And we'll live happily ever after.

_She says,  
__These bars are filled with things that kill,  
__By now you probably should have learned._

_Did you forget that yellow bird,  
__How could you forget your yellow bird._

_And she took a small silver wreath  
__And pinned it onto me.  
__She said,  
__This one will bring you love.  
__And I don't know if it's true  
__But I keep it for good luck._

**A/N:** God, this whole thing just about killed me. I am very, very, tired, and my fingers are aching. The lyrics at the end are from a song called We Are Nowhere and It's Now, by Bright Eyes. And the little kid segment seems kind of corny. Ah well, 's not like I care.


End file.
